


The Final Deployment

by Todaywearesoldiers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Age, Old Married Couple, Retirement, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sussex, Who's Rosie, cottage, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25543135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todaywearesoldiers/pseuds/Todaywearesoldiers
Summary: A one-shot detailing Sherlock and John's retirement in their Sussex cottage and how it came about.While the future of BBC Sherlock is uncertain, I know our boys will one day be allowed to retire to Sussex. I have been dying to get back into writing but couldn’t get over the initial fear of taking on a big project, so I spent the past hour putting this lil piece together. I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	The Final Deployment

It happened after John came home one day, murmuring about cabs and the inconvenient bustle of the city. “We oughta move to the country,” he said to no one in particular, stomping the rain off his shoes and re-tucking his shirt. “Buy a car, cycle to the shops. Never deal with the damn tube or tip a cabbie ever again.”

Sherlock watched as John shuffled into the kitchen to start preparing dinner, still muttering under his breath, and rubbed his chin. Could they leave London? He had often thought of the countryside and the prospect of finishing his study on bees but considered it a foolish dream. Of course, London would always need someone like Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, but perhaps they were becoming too slow for the pace of the city. Together, they had made London a safer place for generations to come, but now, there were younger, more enthusiastic men and women and more advanced forensic technology than ever before. Maybe Sherlock could better serve England as an apiarist. 

He looked to his longtime partner in the kitchen who was adjusting his glasses to better read the recipe on his tablet. He opened his laptop. Forget England. He had served it long enough. How could he better serve John Watson?

The next afternoon, Sherlock lowered himself beside John on the sofa, doing his best not to spill his tea, but struggling since developing a tremor in both hands. “Are you free tomorrow?” he asked, trying to draw attention away from his ailment.

“Sherlock, you bloody well know I am free every day for the rest of my life.”

“Good, I have us an appointment with a real estate agent in Sussex. We’ll have to leave early, so no late telly benders.”

John took off his reading glasses which had been positioned over his regular glasses. “You what?” 

“Hmm? I got us set up with someone to show us property in the countryside. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What?” John asked again, struggling to figure out how Sherlock came to this conclusion before remembering his frustration with London yesterday. “Sherlock,” he sighed, dragging his palm down his face. After all these years, it astounded John how his partner could still miss the signs of his sarcasm. “I didn’t mean literally. I was just releasing some tension. We couldn’t possibly leave Baker Street.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, leaning forward to grab his laptop and cancel the appointment with the real estate agent. He stopped midway. “Why not?” 

“Because, well…” he looked into Sherlock’s questioning gaze. 

They locked eyes and said nothing but decided everything. 

Now, they were settled in a lovely cottage in Sussex- John with a grand desk and fly-fishing pole, Sherlock with his bees and many scientific reports to write up. The cottage was small and had only one bedroom and bathroom to share between the two of them. They never even thought of the matter, and Sherlock had the shed behind the house renovated to serve as a place for using his science equipment. He also kept supplies to arrange flowers in the shed, often bringing in fresh bouquets to watch John’s face light up. Sherlock did not know that John reacted in this way not because he particularly enjoyed the flowers, but because he believed Sherlock to be infatuated by them, hence why he must bring so many inside. 

Once a week, Sherlock would phone Mycroft and relish in making their retirement sound as mushy as possible. He would tell him how long they slept in that day or how John was engaged in framing old newspaper clippings of their cases. Mycroft would find some excuse to cut off the call after about ten minutes, hoping Sherlock believed him above this romantic drivel, but he waited by his phone each week to see Sherlock’s name flash across the screen. 

Mrs. Hudson had long since passed, but Sherlock still sometimes shouted her name for tea or company. John did not allow himself to conjecture if this behavior was habit or a failing memory. They employed only a gardener who managed to keep the grounds neat despite Sherlock’s long list of chemicals that could not be near the bees. He was a young man who Sherlock deduced to be in love with his flatmate. Of course, this was a lie. He said it only to hear John talk the boy’s ear off about how Sherlock was the best thing to happen to him and how important it is to not wait before expressing your feelings. The boy only came about twice a week, but slowly, his visits became longer and longer. 

Despite the amount said between them throughout the years, perhaps their biggest challenge of all was left unspoken about. Yes, they had signed all the papers, making sure money went where it was supposed to and that their final resting places would be beside each other, but they both found it unnecessary to talk too long about the inevitable. They had wasted enough time waiting on each other; they need not waste any time waiting on it to end. On nights where John could not sleep, he hoped for them to go around the same time, not wishing it upon Sherlock to live without him and vice versa. Lord knows he knew that pain all too well, even if that was before how they are now, an extension of one another, the gravity that keeps them tethered to this earth. 

Eventually, he would get out of bed, walk around the cottage and stop for water in the kitchen, examining the various awards littered around the house. On the mantle, there stood a framed medal received by one of them for some heroic act or another. On the coffee table, there sat a bust of Napoleon and beside it, a blue stone glimmering in the moonlight. On the wall hung a photo of them in 221B on New Year’s Eve featuring a much younger John wearing the deerstalker and an equally younger Sherlock rolling his eyes. In the drawer of their dresser, John’s army revolver sat cleaned and loaded, always ready for the next installment of the game. 

It never takes long for John to find his way back to the bed and pull Sherlock into his arms, one hand finding his way to his rather thick, now graying curls. He felt the retired detective’s steady breathing and held his presently still hand within his own. Their future and the length of it may be unknown but one thing is for certain: It was a pleasure to serve with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> On Tumblr as todaywearesoldiers :)


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